


and I hear that it gives you a rush

by wheniwasatree (climbingbranches)



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Frottage, Knifeplay, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 13:49:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13548642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/climbingbranches/pseuds/wheniwasatree
Summary: Kavinsky has plans for tonight, beginning with one knife and ending with one very unravelled Prokopenko.





	and I hear that it gives you a rush

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a line swiped from “We've Got the Knife” by AFI
> 
> Written based on this post by nsfw0lf:  
> http://nsfw0lf.tumblr.com/post/163458103351/i-need-kavinsky-wrenching-prokos-head-back-by-his

Kavinsky was in a bit of a mood. 

An aggressive, aimless drive hadn't soothed whatever had bothered him that day, whatever itch he was trying to scratch. Prokopenko, sitting somewhat sideways in his seat, could see it in the agitated tapping on the steering wheel, the clench of his jaw. When Kavinsky ran three red lights in quick succession, to the sounds of brakes squealing, horns honking, the beginnings of a grin quirked at the sides of his mouth. Prokopenko wouldn't describe it as a happy grin, but maybe pleased.

And so Prokopenko had expected Kavinsky to continue the spree of running red lights, so when Kavinsky stopped abruptly at the fourth, Proko yelped in surprise, thrown forward at the sudden stop.

"Jesus fuck, K, is there something special about this light?" He rubs at his collarbone where the seat belt dug in.

"Nah, just fucking with you. And I can feel you staring. Enjoying the view?" Kavinsky looks over at Proko, eyebrow raised over the rim of his sunglasses.

"Like you fucking mind, you self-obsessed asshole," Prokopenko replies. He always watches K when he drives, though not always this obviously. Behind the wheel, Kavinsky’s magnetism is amplified by the coiled energy and the way he leans in to every aggressive maneuver.

Kavinsky doesn't disagree, and shrugs one shoulder, runs his hand through his hair. The motion is unfairly smooth and sinuous, and does nothing to make Prokopenko want to look anywhere else. Kavinsky turns back to the stoplight. Still red. 

When the light turns green a second later, Kavinsky steps on the gas, and the car leaps forward. Prokopenko hasn't looked away, the setting sun casting shadows on the sharp angles of Kavinsky’s face, his neck, the hollow of his collarbones. Proko wants to trace them with his tongue. As if Kavinsky can feel the weight of his gaze, his expression has slid straight into something devious and slightly predatory. “Thirsty much?”

Prokopenko rolls his eyes, scoffs and turns away, but doesn’t deny it. Kavinsky takes the next turn, twice as fast as necessary, and at least four times as fast as a normal person. He flings his arm over so his hand rests on the back of Proko’s neck, index finger just barely scratching into his hairline. He squeezes lightly, and Proko shivers.

The road K hurtled onto is a largely-empty side road, headed off to rolling hills and then off to bumfuck nowhere. Kavinsky pulls the car over to the shoulder of the road and throws it into park before twisting in his seat and flicking his sunglasses to sit on the top of his head. Proko is already leaning in before Kavinsky even needs to pull him in.

"Since you just can’t keep your eyes off me...” Kavinsky trails off, closing the distance between their lips. Kavinsky’s lips are chapped and dry, but they’re warm and firm and Proko's lips part, and soon enough Kavinsky is licking into Proko’s mouth. It’s not as possessive, as aggressive as usual, and Proko gets the sense that he’s teasing him a little, he’s holding back a little. In any case, he’s too far away.

Proko opens his eyes, and pulls back slightly. “Come on, K, I’d rather get my hands on you.” Kavinsky opens his mouth to reply, but Proko cuts him off, “ _Fuck_ , just get over here.”

“So needy,” K says, mockingly, teasingly, and Proko flushes. K pulls his sunglasses off the and tosses them on the dash before clambering over into Proko’s lap. Proko groans as Kavinsky shifts before settling his weight (slight as that is), and leans in to press open-mouthed kisses to K’s neck. 

Kavinsky’s hands are just resting on Proko’s shoulders, thumbs rubbing absently up the sides of his neck as Proko kisses and nips his way down Kavinsky’s neck. When he reaches where neck meets shoulder, he bites down. He hears Kavinsky exhale shakily and feels him shift in his lap. K slips his hands up from where they'd been resting on Proko's shoulders, right to Proko’s jawline, thumbs under his chin. He guides Proko’s head back up so he can kiss him again.

And It's not the teasing of before. It's slow, sinuous, and Proko can't get enough of this feeling, K rolling his hips in tandem with his skillful tongue, and maybe this is still teasing because K knows exactly how to wreck him and this is just K winding him up. When Kavinsky breaks the kiss briefly, he finds himself panting into K's mouth. 

Proko runs his hands up under Kavinsky's shirt, scratching them back down, and he swears he can feel the groan, the hissed “yes” that elicits from K shiver all the way down his spine. He pulls Kavinsky as tight to him as he'll let him, leans down and runs his tongue up one, nosing back up to meet Kavinsky's lips, but the hands that had been resting along his jawline are no longer lax and instead hold him back from leaning back in to kiss Kavinsky again.

"God, look at you." The tone is a heady mix of awe and scorn and Proko feels hot all over, the arousal tinged with the slight embarassment of just how much he wants K, here, pulled over on the side of the road. He wants to press forward, wants K to keep talking, he wants to touch, to be touched, to get home and get out of these fucking clothes. He grabs at K's hips, pulling at him until K restarts the sinuous grind of his hips.

K leans in, licks just along Proko's bottom lip, before moving to his neck, wasting no time in pressing nipping, sucking kisses down his neck. Proko can tell they're going to leave a mark, Kavinsky’s possessive streak means there’s always marks.

Kavinsky pauses, pulls back enough to speak clearly, voice more gravelly than normal, evidence that he's not unaffected by all this. Proko can feel the puffs of breath against his neck, as he growls, "You're so fucking easy for me. I can feel how hard you are." Proko exhales shakily, tipping his head back to expose his neck even more. "You could come like this." 

God, yes he could. He doesn't say it. He doesn't need to, Kavinsky knows he has, he could, he would. And as Kavinsky goes back to sucking at the spot he was working at before, Proko doesn't think it sounds like a bad plan right now.

But with one last roll of his hips, Kavinsky pulls back from the mark he'd been sucking onto Proko's neck. Proko's eyes open; he makes a noise of protest.

"But," Kavinsky says with what must be the world's most suggestive smirk, "I have much better plans for tonight than making you come in your pants on the side of the road."

Proko feels a flash of heat rush through him, followed by annoyance that he now has to wait. He wants to pull Kavinsky against him, wants his mouth back on him, wants to ride out the aftershocks of his orgasm with K talking him through it with just that bite of derision in his tone that just _really fucking works for him_.

But, he flexes his grip on Kavinsky's hips one more time before letting go. Kavinsky settles back into the driver's seat, grabs his sunglasses from the dash, and heads off home, making a showy squeal of his tires as he turns. 

The drive back is laden with anticipation. Proko asks Kavinsky about these plans he mentioned, K only slyly says "something special" and won't give a single detail. And though Proko’s thoughts flick through the things it could mean, because Kavinsky is nothing if not creative and resourceful, he can’t help but make a handful of irritated, sulky noises at the lack of details. (And at getting all worked up and having to wait.)

Kavinsky parks the car and is out and stalking toward the door before Prokopenko even gets his seat belt off. Once inside, Kavinsky crowds him up against the door, hand firm on his chest. K growls into his ear, "Just wait down here. Be patient. Be good." 

Proko sinks back into the overstuffed couch, hands gripping at the edge of the cushion. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, exhales shakily. He’s still half-hard from earlier, and from anticipation. Kavinsky said he had something special planned, told him to be good, and god if he wanted to be anything but good for K right now. He knows that Kavinsky knows him, knows what he wants, and a pleasant shiver rolls through his body.

 

Kavinsky isn't gone long, but when he comes back down the stairs, he doesn't appear to be holding anything. He strides back to where Proko is sitting back on the couch, watching him, expression eager but somewhat puzzled. K lazily drawls, “It’s a surprise, don’t be so fucking impatient.” He steps in close, between Proko’s knees, and Prokopenko grabs his hips to pull him close. Kavinsky peels his hands off his hips, one at a time, none too gently, pressing each hand back to the edge of the couch.

Proko’s doesn’t resist as he does, but his gaze is fixed intently on Kavinsky as he repositions them. “Tonight, you’re going to keep your hands to yourself, until I say so.” He runs his thumb over Proko’s lips a few times, they part slightly. Proko flicks his tongue against the pad of Kavinsky’s thumb where it had come to rest heavily on his bottom lip. Kavinsky grins. “Of course, that will probably be a bit hard for you...you’re practically gagging for it.” 

Prokopenko’s response to that is cut off by Kavinsky kissing him breathless, pressing him back against the couch. “It’s a good look for you,” he murmurs as he moves from Proko’s lips to his neck, zeroing back in on the spot he’d left a mark earlier. Proko’s breath catches, and he wants to ask K again about his plans for tonight but the feeling of his hot mouth on his neck has made the question less urgent.

When Kavinsky is satisfied with his mark, he llifts his mouth from Proko’s neck, bites at his earlobe, pulls his hands away.

Proko goes to follow, lean in toward Kavinsky, but K's hand is suddenly at the back of his neck, fingers grasping, just barely scratching into his hair. "I told you to stay," Kavinsky growls. Proko stills. "I dreamt something special up just for you babe." 

Proko whines. On Kavinsky's lips "babe" sounds less like a sweet endearment and more like a stinging bite. Proko loves it.

Kavinsky's hand slides up from the back of his neck, up the back of Proko’s head, tangling in the longer strands at the top. Not tugging, just tangling. 

Or rather, not yet. Kavinsky figured it out, years ago, what it does to him. He makes a point to muss up Proko’s hair in public. To anyone who wasn't looking for it, they wouldn't notice his hand tighten briefly, the resulting sharp inhale that Proko hides in a laugh, the flush at the tips of his ears.

And now Kavinsky tugs at his hair and he doesn't have to hide it, his eyes slide shut and it's almost like he can feel a tug on his cock and his exhale turns into a moan. 

“You look like a fucking dream right now.” With his free hand, K does briefly palm him through his jeans, and Proko chokes back another moan. Kavinsky just growls, increases the pressure. “Fuck, come on, let me hear you.” Kavinsky leans in and bites at his neck, none too gently, and Proko knows better than to grab at K when he's been told to stay, but he wants to grab at K’s shoulders, drag him close. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, but he holds that last fucking shred of self-control just barely.

Proko hears a sound that he can't quite place, he opens his eyes and sees Kavinsky, leaning in, eyes alight, pupils blown. From arousal, from pills, from Proko holding himself back, bending to his will, it doesn't matter in the end.

Kavinsky laughs breathlessly, maybe that’s an edge of mania, pulls him even closer. Their lips meet and nothing is sweet and everything is sharp, and Kavinsky pulls hard again and he gasps into K's mouth and whines when he pulls back.

Proko feels something cool at his throat. Sharp? He freezes. "K?" He licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “Is that a knife?”

If he thought Kavinsky's eyes were on fire before, they're an inferno now. He looks viciously pleased. "Do you like it babe?" Proko shivers ever so slightly, there's "babe" again, in that fucking voice of his. His eyes slide shut, he feels how heavily he’s breathing. And, fuck, there's a fucking knife at his throat and K is burning holes through him with his eyes and oh god has he ever been harder in his _life_ , what the fuck. He wants to move, wants to do something to release some of the pressure, but god, he can’t.

Kavinsky leans in, just bites Proko's bottom lip and smiles and Proko is not sure but the smile may be sharper than the knife still pressed (oh god) to his throat. His hips jerk forward a little at the thought and he's trembling now. 

Kavinsky loosens his grip slightly, uses the hand still tangled in his hair to turn Proko's head to the side as he slides the knife across, carefully, teasingly. "You're enjoying this." Kavinsky's voice holds no surprise, like he knew this would unravel Prokopenko.

"God, K, yes, fuck, _please_." Proko isn't even sure what he's begging for, he just wants something. Something more than the knife at his throat and the hand in his hair. He digs his fingers into his own thighs, K still hasn't told him he can touch.

Kavinsky tugs Proko’s head back, so his back arches, tilts the knife so the flat of it is under his jaw, steps in, presses just a hair harder. "You're mine, Proko," he growls.

Proko shivers. "Yes, yours, always yours," he breathes, as he relaxes into Kavinsky's grip. His eyes slide shut again, lost in sensation. He can feel his erection straining uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans. He wants them off, he wants K to touch him.

"Good boy." Proko shudders in response. Kavinsky lets go of his hair, trails a finger down his chest, teasingly, until he gets to the waistband of Proko's jeans. 

Instead of unbuttoning his jeans, Kavinsky steps back from between Proko's knees, sweeping them together before climbing into his lap, knees bracketing his hips, in an echo of earlier in the car. 

Proko's hands hover uncertainly, he wants to touch, wants to pull Kavinsky to him, feel how hard he is from reducing Proko to this shivering mess. But all he does is watch him heatedly.

"You can touch me now." 

Proko doesn't wait a second, he grabs Kavinsky's sharp hips, rolls his hips up against him, quick and desperate. He swallows down a whine. Kavinsky doesn't. "Yes, Proko, fuck, you look so good like this."

And fuck, Kavinsky is once again moving the knife teasingly, feather light. Proko stills, though his hips are still moving slightly against K. K flips the flat of the blade against the side of Proko's throat, and K must have dreamt it so it doesn't warm up because it's somehow still cool against his skin. Kavinsky grabs his chin, turns his head and licks a hot line along the edge of the blade. 

"God K, please, _please_ , enough teasing." Kavinsky doesn't answer, just dips a little lower on his neck to suck a bruise there. Proko claws encouragingly at K's back, rolls his hips up. 

"I'm not fucking teasing," he growls into Proko's throat. "Maybe I want you to come like this."

And Proko thinks he should be protesting, he should at least get his fucking jeans off. But he's not.

Kavinsky grips his shoulder with his free hand, digs his thumb into the hollow of Proko's collarbone. "You're going to come for me, like this, without a hand on your cock." Proko feels his face burning, because he's right, K knows exactly how to wind him up, the strings to pull, the buttons to press to work him up to this desperate unravelling mess.

Prokopenko is panting heavily now, hips rolling jerkily, uncoordinated. "So fucking desperate, aren't you babe?" 

Whatever Proko was going to say trails off into a moan. He feels K pull the knife away, hears it clunk to the floor. Feels him tangle his hand in his hair again. He shivers. "K, ah, make me come, please?" The please comes out high pitched, breathy and pleading.

Kavinsky pins him with his gaze, before tugging his hair just short of viciously. "Come for me." It's not a suggestion.

And Proko does, his eyes slamming shut as his back arches, hissing out a breathy "fuck", pulling Kavinsky's hips against his as he rides out his orgasm.

Kavinsky doesn't give him long to catch his breath, before he's kissing him almost frantically, tongue sweeping through Proko's mouth. "You look so fucking good underneath me." He nips up Proko's jawline. "Get on your knees for me." This isn't a suggestion either. Proko would have done it anyway if it was.

Kavinsky moves out of Proko's lap, something between a scramble and a roll. He quickly undoes the button of his jeans, the zipper, shoves them down. Proko slides off the couch, and arranges himself in front of Kavinsky.

Kavinsky doesn't resist the urge to stroke himself a few times. As good as Proko looks coming apart underneath him, he looks fucking amazing on his knees, especially this flushed and disheveled from his own orgasm. 

Proko leans in, brushes his lips against the head of Kavinsky's cock. He smiles at the sharp inhale Kavinsky makes, before opening his mouth and taking him in.

Kavinsky can't keep his hands out of Proko's hair for long, and is soon directing Proko's head up and down his length, his hips working in counterpoint. It doesn't take long for him to feel his orgasm building. He can hear Proko making soft, pleased noises, enjoying being on his knees, even though he just came, can feel his tongue working over the head when he pulls back, the faintest scratch or teeth as he pushes back in.

He tugs Proko’s head down as far as he can, feels the noise Proko makes more than hears it, and Proko is sucking hard on the upstroke, and that's it, and Kavinsky is coming with a litany of filthy praises.

Proko swallows it down, and Kavinsky tugs him up to the couch with him, after he's caught his breath a little. They lie with Proko's head on Kavinsky's chest, until Proko reaches down and grabs the knife from the floor.

The handle is charcoal, but the blade is an iridescent blue that Proko thinks may match his eyes. When he touches the blade, it's cool, more than it should be. Proko looks at Kavinsky. "You dreamed this for me? For doing...this?"

Kavinsky looks up at the ceiling. "It's not a very useful knife for anything else. It doesn't actually cut anything." He demonstrates by pressing it firmly into his arm. "It's just always cold, so it feels fucking sharp."

He hasn't really answered the question, but Proko can hear the "Yes", since Kavinsky doesn't dream things by accident. He also can hear that he dreamt it that way because he does actually give a shit about Proko and at least some part of him tempered the thrill-seeking destructive part of him to come up with this knife as it is.

Kavinsky closes it with a _snick_ and looks down at Proko.

"Go clean yourself up, you're all fucking sticky." 

Proko laughs and shifts even closer to K. “Like you aren’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well hello everybody.
> 
> So, as the notes said, I read this post hhttp://nsfw0lf.tumblr.com/post/163458103351/i-need-kavinsky-wrenching-prokos-head-back-by-his) from nsfw0lf and it burrowed into my head, and over the span of months, I eventually wrote this.
> 
> During that time, I was asking myself if this was really what I wanted to put out there as my first fic in the fandom, which I clearly resolved into an answer of yes. 
> 
> This was half a writing exercise (it has been a long while since I wrote uh, much of anything), half a giant pile of self-indulgence. I have some other WIPs that are...well, they're still half writing exercises, half piles of self-indulgence. They probably (hopefully?) have more characterization / relationship exploration than this does. Writing K and Proko is a bit less daunting since they have less canon characterization.
> 
> Also, aha omg much fucking longer than I originally intended, and writing kissing of all things is so hard wtf? I would also like you all to know that I think I spent more time editing this than I did for probably any academic paper I have ever written.
> 
> Also also, finally a PSA, please actually negotiate your kink, because surprise surprise, Kavinsky is setting a bad example here, holy shit.
> 
> Anyway, I’d love to hear what you thought! (And also, let me know if you see any stupid errors I didn’t catch.)


End file.
